Halvar strained his neck looking up. He couldn't see the top of Skorradalr's walls, taller than ought the Jarl had ever seen. Thicker too with plenty of towers and murder holes.

It was built like a place meant for gods, not men, but the Wodanar had taken to it, hidden behind the fortress’s walls, hiding from the mist and vaettir and war.

Halvar’s amazement faded quickly. Warriors weren't made in the comfort of fire and hiding behind such thick walls.

The Hastingy were quick to move, following game when needed and raiding when hungry for plunder. Such a life had made them stronger than any one tribe, but the Wodanar, they’d been conquered by fear long ago, and a people conquered could be once again.

But even with the weakness Skorradalr represented, there was still something Halvar wanted to know.

“Was this truly built by men?” Halvar asked because he couldn't even imagine how men would construct such a wonder.

For him to see a fortress from so far away and through the mist would have had him thinking it an illusion. But Halvar had been to Skorradalr in his youth along with his father. He remembered its large fields within and an entrance large enough to walk an army through. The stairs leading inside too were large, almost being too high for a grown man to traverse with ease. He, as a child all those years ago, certainly couldn't without help.

“It was built by Jotnar,” Gry said from behind his back, washing herself in a pool heated by her dagger. “At least that’s what Aslaug says.”

Halvar’s body rose at the mere thought of Gry’s nakedness. By the fucking tree, the smell of her had his stones apt to burst and face burning.

Hadding, Aslaug, and every shifter he knew had warned him. Shifters were men, but men possessed, closer to beast than any should wish to be. Every desire seemed all-consuming, hunger, lust, even the need to be free of the trappings of honor. Going feral was alway a risk and one that felt all too inviting, leading to shifters being feared as some murdering and raping after losing themselves.

It was a struggle each day, even in the sun. Halvar felt the need for flesh, that of men and beast alike without fire to spoil the flavor, the blood. And then there was the need for women. The smell of their sex, their sweat, more heady than a barrel of mead, and Gry was worse still, the god’s chosen alway on his mind.

If only they hadn't been alone, but the tribe was a day behind them and a pack of feral shifters needed killing. More men meant death by Aslaug’s own words so only Gry joined him, tempting him always.

“How would she know that Jotnar built this place?” Halvar asked. Maybe it would distract him.

“Völva see things, Lord.”

Her voice was sensual in his ears, sending the vaettir beneath his skin into a frenzy. Or could it just be how at ease she was? No edge of fear in her words, no hesitation to stand with him even as his eyes glowed and skin turned gray.

Since coming into his power, Halvar had only taken slaves to bed. Even then, they'd seen him as a monster, turning in the act as if to devour them. Would Gry be the same? Would she care?

Halvar stood and walked away. His jarldom, his desires, his hunger, he needed a moment from them all. Time in the wood would give him that. Just a day, or even a few hours to himself.

Before he knew it, Halvar had torn through his gambison. Didn't need the damned thing. Felt like a rope around his neck, choking him. No more of that or fire or steel and people. Too many fucking people!

“Lord, where the fuck are you going?”

Halvar kept his silence until a hand landed on his shoulder. He spun at that, hand lifting Gry off the ground by her tunic and pressing her against a tree. “Leave me be!”

“The tribe is that way!” she shot back gesturing in the opposite direction.

“Not going there!” he growled.

“Then where!”

“I don’t know!” Halvar bellowed, his voice turning to an inhuman roar.

A long moment passed before Gry spoke, calmly and unafraid. She was never afraid.

“You're going feral.”

Halvar opened his mouth to deny her. Fool woman was hardly a Völva. How would she know? Fuck! How did he know she wasn't wrong? He couldn't think with her this close, and that look. Fool woman still wasn't afraid.

Halvar leaned in breathing heavy. “Why aren't you afraid?”

Gry scoffed. “I know when a man wants to hurt me.” Her eyes drifted down to his trousers. “And when he wants something else.”

Halvar kissed her, not caring anymore, but she kissed him right back, crawling onto him, legs wrapping around him. She gasped as they came to the ground, snow biting into her now bare back. He didn't feel the cold as she rolled on top of him, only the warmth of her kisses rained down on him.

A low rumbling escaped him as Gry suckled his member. The change was coming despite the sun. Runes and intricate patterns appeared across his skin. The light dulled by the mist seemed all too bright as his eyes turned red, then, Gry’s sex was pressed against his as she played with herself.

“Are you sure?” she said, obviously thinking more of the consequences than Halvar himself.

She was a Völva. Her trench would take his mind, enchant him to be hers. But he was already losing himself and she was favored by the gods. Who better to keep him from the mist.

Halvar pressed into her shuddering as warmth enveloped him.